


The Silver Thread

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Halls of Mandos, Mother/Son Incest, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Pregnancy, Rebirth, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-20 15:23:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12435642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: Together, Fëanor and Míriel escape the Halls of Mandos and flee to Beleriand.





	The Silver Thread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uumuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/gifts).



Fire leapt up in the dark Halls; Fëanáro entered the realm of Mandos with all his power and strength in bright evidence. 

"Send me back!" he roared. "My children are in danger, my people will suffer, my Silmarils are held by the enemy, and my father has not been avenged. I am not _finished_ , send me back!" 

Deafening silence greeted him. The shades around him, grey and ghostly, parted to let him through and faded away in his wake. Now and again the sight of a friend killed on the battlefield with him, their bright eyes catching his, would brighten the flame that was his eyes, but even they shrank from him, pursuant of their own thoughts and contemplation. 

Fëanáro was no shade, no ghost. He was flame itself, his spirit burning and burning, yet never consuming him. 

Time itself lost meaning, and he wandered the grey halls in wrath, until at last a face appeared before him, a pale white flame with long silver hair flowing down. 

"Shh, my son, my beloved," she whispered, holding out her hands to him. 

Fëanáro took them into his own, and some of the flame of his wrath faded into her body, making her seem to brighten under his touch. "Mother," he said, his voice full of awe. "Mother!"

Míriel gathered him to herself, holding him close, and life flooded through her, turning her sober mien to a dazzling smile, and her pale face flushed with colour. "You want to leave the Halls?" she said. "So do I. It is forbidden to us both, so we must slip out into the porous darkness." She held out what she had in her hand to him. "Look. It will guide us."

A skein of silver thread was in her hand, and it stretched away across the floor, into an unknown distance. "We follow the thread?" Fëanáro asked, delight in his voice. 

"It will guide us to the place we need to be," Míriel breathed. She took hold of his hand. "Come." 

Together they crept along the floor of the Halls, just two small souls moving about like all the rest. Fëanáro's fire was dimmer now, having been translated into his mother's spirit, and she burned bright in hope and expectation. 

They emerged at last beyond the walls into sudden starlight, walking through them as if they were not there, and instantly they were reclothed in bodies new and fresh, made from memory whole and complete. Grey garments clothed them, and they wore light shoes on their feet. Míriel laughed, reaching out to the soft breeze and up toward the stars. "Oh, I am reborn!" she exclaimed. "I see the stars again."

Fëanáro smiled. He turned toward her, gathering her up in his arms. "From my earliest days I longed for this. I wanted to walk into Death and take you from it." He pressed a kiss to her cheek, laughing like a child. "At last I have triumphed."

"You have cheated Death once, but now you must save your children," Míriel said. "I know how it is. You would give all for them, as I gave all for you."

"And in return I give all back to you!" Fëanáro exclaimed. "I have enough. I am enough." He gathered her fully up against him, spinning her around. A sweet madness of joy darted through his veins. He looked up into her face, eyes burning, and met the same answering desire in her eyes. Their lips met, mouths crashing together like two waves meeting. 

Her hands brushed over his face, caressing him tenderly, like he was the only precious thing she had ever seen. She drew back a little to look at him. "My blood yearns for you," she whispered. "And I see it in your eyes too, my son, my beloved." She pressed tiny kisses to his cheeks, his lips, his temples, his forehead, brushing his hair back from his face. It was something halfway between the caress of a mother and the embrace of a lover, and he shivered beneath the sweet assault, falling to his knees, still with her in his arms, on the soft green grass just outside the walls of the Halls of the Dead. 

Their garments were the loose grey material all newly reborn souls came out of the Halls with, and were easily dispensed with. She tugged hers off over her head, throwing it down to form a makeshift bed for them while he dropped his to the side. They both slid their feet out of the light shoes they wore, and fell upon each other with all the hunger of starving creatures upon food. 

"Mother," he gasped breathlessly, pressing his face against her breasts, blindly seeking out one of her nipples to suckle at like a newborn babe. She cradled his head, held him close against her while he sucked at it, making the nipple grow hard from the wetness and warmth of his mouth. Against her thigh, his erection grew, and as he sucked, he thrust helplessly against her, his cock leaking. 

With her free hand, she reached down between their bodies and took gentle hold of it, sliding her small hand up and down. She could feel the wetness growing in her cunt with every lap at her nipple, every time she stroked his cock. 

At last he released her nipple and slid downwards across her belly. She let go of his cock, moving her hands to his head, and directed him firmly to her clit, anticipating the touch of his tongue against her most intimate parts. He pressed forth eagerly, lapping at her, making soft noises of delight at the taste of her juices. 

"Oh my love, my sweet son," she breathed. "Yes, just like that...!" She encouraged him with tender muttered words, pulled at his hair, making him gasp against her. His tongue was as skilled in bedplay as it was in languages, and it wasn't long before she was arching up into his mouth, her hands releasing him and falling back as she sobbed his name in desperate need, and then came, pulse after echoing pulse, all the world going soundless, all her bones dissolving in the heat of orgasm. 

In the aftermath, he waited no longer, but entered her as she still shuddered, taking her pleasure from the highest heights back to a low hum that still burned under her skin, waiting to be sparked into life again. He pressed all the way inside her at the first thrust, groaning at the feel of her tight inner walls, then withdrew nearly all the way, and pressed back in again, this time making them both groan. 

She raised her legs, wrapping them around his waist, and drew his head down to kiss him, and then there was only the rhythm of their bodies, the feel of his cock sliding in and out of her, slick with her fluids. He was back where he belonged, he was with her, they were together again as they always should have been, and she lacked for nothing. Pleasure built and built again, not a sudden sharp peak as before but this time a slowly climbed mountain. 

His eyelids fluttered, and he opened his eyes to meet hers. All her body surged in a yes to his desires. She could deny him nothing, and never would again. And then he was shaking and trembling in her arms, coming inside her, panting incoherent love into her ears. 

Easing himself down, he lay with his head on her breast for a moment, and then carefully slid from her. He wrapped her in his arms, and they held each other for a long while. 

Eventually, a cold breeze swept over them, and Fëanáro knelt up, taking his tunic and putting it on again. He stood, and offered Míriel a hand. She jumped up, laughing, and gathered her garment, making a wry face at the wet stain on it, but put it on anyway. 

They turned back to look at the Halls of the Dead. Over it there was a dark cloud, gathering and gathering. Fëanáro sucked in a sharp breath. "We must go. We have already lingered too long."

They fled over the darkened land of Valinor like two shadows in a mist. No one followed them, and they felt no eyes upon them. No hunger pursued them or thirst assailed them, and at last they reached the shores of the Sea, and looked at the silver thread, trailing away into the waves. 

"How do we cross that?" Fëanáro said. "We cannot steal, beg, or borrow a ship. We cannot build one. We cannot walk on water."

Míriel gave him a sly quirk of a smile. "Long years ago, when I waited by the shores of the Sea, I learned to speak with a friend. I have not forgotten his language; let us see if he remembers me."

She waded waist-deep into the water, put her hands around her mouth, and gave one long, drawn-out, solemn cry. After some time, she repeated it. They waited in silence. 

At last the waves broke high and hard upon the shore, foaming white-crested. A great disturbance arose in the water. "There!" Míriel said. "Come, let's go!" 

Fëanáro followed her into the water, and there, in the shallows, was a giant sea turtle. She leapt up onto its back, then held out her hand, and Fëanáro jumped up too. "Hold on!" she said, then lay down on the turtle's shell and whispered in its ear. 

The turtle slowly turned, and Fëanáro had just enough time to sit down and grab onto the edge of the shell at its neck before it headed into deeper waters. "It is a strange friend you made!" he called to Míriel. 

"A kindly friend nevertheless! I called him Fastitocalon, and someone I know, Ivarë, made up a rhyme about him! 'An island good to land upon!' Well, perhaps not to land upon, but a good friend to have, for he is well-disposed, and has succoured us in our need." Míriel was laughing in her wet garments, her eyes bright, her silver hair flowing in the wind, the same colour as the spray the turtle generated as he flew across the waves. 

Fëanáro wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms again. Instead he reached out, and she gave him her hand. 

Over the dark and wave-tossed Sea they rode, the turtle going at a fast clip through the water. "He's heading North as well as East," she said. "I told him that your sons are in Beleriand, and he will take us as near to the Firth of Drengist as he can." 

At last they came to the sandy beaches of the land that would in later days be known as Nevrast, and there the turtle dropped them, walking into the shallows, waiting while Fëanáro dismounted, and while Míriel slid into his arms, then turning without a sound and disappearing into the waves. 

They waved their thanks and farewells after him, and then Fëanáro turned to look about the place, spotting the silver thread emerging from the water and leading away into the distance over the hills. "We need to rest," he said, "and this is as good a place as any." 

Míriel smiled wickedly. "Are you saying that because you want to be back in my arms again so soon?" 

Fëanáro turned back toward her, and picked her up, carrying her up the beach to the warm dry sand, and then beyond that to the soft green grass of a wide meadow. The stars were bright overhead, and beside them, the silver thread gleamed. 

"Yes, I do," he said, setting her down after a long slow kiss. 

"Then why wait?" she asked, taking off her wet garment and hanging it from a nearby tree branch. "Make love to me here. It's not just one mad impulse born of new life and vitality, is it?"

"No," Fëanáro shook his head. "No, it's you. I yearned for you and now I have you, and I will never let you go again." 

She laughed, coming to him and gesturing with her hand that he should remove his wet tunic too. She took it and laid it out on another branch. "Romantic! I didn't raise you that way! You sound like your father." 

He came close and nuzzled her shoulder, pressing little kisses all down the back of her neck. "It's only the truth." 

She gave another bright laugh and turned in his arms, taking his hand and pressing it to her belly. "How's this for romantic? Our child now grows within me, the first child who will be born to the Noldor on these shores. Did you intend that in your passion?" 

Fëanáro kissed her, and slowly they sank to the ground. "Yes," he breathed. "Yes."


End file.
